


Equaliser

by Just_Another_Day



Category: Captive Prince - C. S. Pacat
Genre: Angst, Battle, Death, Gen, Pre-Canon, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 08:30:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19225459
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Just_Another_Day/pseuds/Just_Another_Day
Summary: The Veretians have the strategic advantage, an impenetrable fort to fall back to, and a strong commander who the men are willing to rally behind even past the point of logic. But the Akielons have the numbers. And sometimes that makes all the difference.





	Equaliser

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the Outnumbered in a Fight square of Bad Things Happen Bingo. Since I straight-up can't leave Marlas alone in fics, that's obviously where my brain went with that prompt.

They just kept coming. Waves of them, all appearing almost identical to Auguste's eyes as they charged at him and pressed heavily against both his sword and shield until Auguste managed to plunge the latter into somewhere vital. As indistinguishable as they all seemed up until that moment, Auguste was sure that he would be able to unconsciously call up every unique tiny detail of the often-brutal deaths they suffered at his hands in his dreams.

Assuming, of course, that Auguste had the opportunity to ever dream again. That was seeming more and more like a distant fantasy the longer this went on, with seemingly no end in sight. 

Auguste got his hopes up about that when the call to stop the fighting had been sent to the front lines. He'd thought it was a sign that maybe this could still somehow end in diplomacy. Even though none of their efforts to work things out with words alone had come close to working so far, for the Akielons were too stubborn and _far_ too greedy. The Akielons had displayed all the confidence and unwillingness to budge that they were naturally afforded by outnumbering the Veretians three to one when the battle had commenced. But Auguste thought he'd managed to narrow that gap somewhat as the Akielons dashed themselves against the lines that Auguste had, through what even he had to admit was some small miracle, managed to hold impenetrably for hours on end. Perhaps, unlikely as it seemed, King Theomedes had seen how near-impossible it had so far been to break through Auguste's ranks and decided that there was little point continuing to heedlessly throw lives away. Though Auguste had trouble imagining Theomedes doing that when he still had so many soldiers waiting to fight that Auguste hadn't even been able to see where their formation ended when he'd been in the thick of the fight. If Theomedes were the type to prioritise lives over land, they wouldn't even be here in the first place.

But Auguste had to hope that he was wrong about that. Because the alternative of what was going to happen if the fighting started up again was painting a fairly bleak picture in Auguste's mind.

The muscles in Auguste's arms were burning by then. His sword, which was usually such a natural extension of his grasp, felt heavy for once. His right wrist ached. His feet were even starting to drag a little clumsily at times over the grass, not helped by how patches of it were now slick with slowly-drying blood. He wasn't exactly at his peak at this point, and it was only going to get worse if Theomedes really was determined to run through the entirety of his armies before he considered giving in. Exhaustion would undoubtedly serve as an equaliser for the talent that had so far protected him from receiving anything more than a few bruises from his clashes. 

Strategy and talent were great, but sometimes they couldn't be enough to overcome the odds. Numbers really did matter. 

Eventually, even Auguste was bound to falter under the onslaught. Surely Father understood that, and was doing everything he could to ensure that Auguste wouldn't be put into such a position. He must know the position Auguste would be in if they couldn't find a way to stop the fighting now.

But then Father had sent a message instructing Auguste to relaunch the attack. Auguste had felt his shoulders slump for just a moment of understanding.

So they were going to have to fight to a bitter end after all. 

Auguste reminded himself that it wasn't as though Father didn't care about the risk to Auguste, or to their remaining soldiers more generally for that matter. Father likely genuinely believed that Auguste could continue to hold the barbarians back just as he'd been doing so far. He thought so highly of Auguste that he felt justified in allowing the battle to go on. Auguste should probably have been proud of that.

He was too tired to feel pride. 

And Auguste did have to wonder, just briefly, whether Father would have occasion to regret relying on Auguste quite that hard.

Then Auguste pushed any traces of uncertainty down so that he could present himself as a still-undaunted leader. He led the renewed charge just the way Father would expect. What else could he do but carry out the orders of his King?

Auguste lost track of time after that. It must have been hours, based on how the sun now hovered visibly much closer to the horizon, but he couldn't have guessed with much accuracy just how _many_ hours he'd been monotonously battering back men before something significant finally changed.

It would have been disingenuous to say the crowds of men who'd been pressing around Auguste parted. That phrasing would have suggested that the men had just stepped willingly back and formed a path down the centre of their formation, the way they did back on the training fields at Arles whenever Auguste rode into their midst. In reality, they really weren't granted that kind of choice. Auguste watched as his own Guardsmen – loyal and true men, many of whom had served under him since Auguste had been only a few years older than Laurent was now, who Auguste had shared meals and laughter and mock fights with countless times over the years, and who Auguste had envisioned remaining part of his life for many more years yet – joined the bodies already littering the ground. They were mowed down one after the other in relatively quick succession, as if they were barely putting up a fight. 

Auguste refused to judge them for it. They'd fought bravely and well. But they were tired, just as Auguste was. And their opponent clearly didn't share that problem If these weren't his first clashes of the day, Auguste would have been very surprised. After all, his armour had been absolutely pristine until he'd just now started splashing it with the blood of the Prince's Guard. 

It was armour that Auguste recognised as well: it belonged to the Akielon Prince. 

Not the bastard son of the King, of whom Auguste had caught sparing and distant glimpses since the fighting had begun. This was the younger one, Damianos, who by all accounts had single-handedly cut through crowds of Auguste's countrymen at Sanpelier. The Akielons had seemingly been keeping him in reserve this time, helping King Theomedes command from behind the lines just as Uncle was doing with Father. But not anymore.

They'd sent the heir to one throne to face off with the other. The rumoured strongest warrior of one country would challenge the other. It was the sort of scenario that would have appeared in the adventure-packed books Laurent had always practically begged Auguste to read to him many years ago. And Auguste would have secretly scoffed at it then, thinking that things were never that simple. Wars didn't hinge on individual men.

But now that he was here, Auguste found himself questioning the truth of that. If Damianos was toppled like the 'king' on Uncle's chessboards, would the Akielons really just keep fighting, heedless?

Would the Veretians, if Auguste were the one who fell instead?

Auguste had killed hundreds of men today, with each successive one seeming just a little more pointless, for their deaths seemed to have no overall impact, and every time they were just replaced with the next. He'd almost started growing numb to it. But this would be different. It had to be. This one additional death might be enough, finally, to tip the scales.

Prince Damianos was probably thinking the same thing about Auguste. That had to be why he'd come here.

At least, Auguste thought, it seemed like there was finally an end to this battle in sight. One way or another.


End file.
